


La petite mort

by Vault_Emblem



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, God!Vergil, Human!V, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Worship, just at the end tho - Freeform, very loosely based on greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 12:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18121001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vault_Emblem/pseuds/Vault_Emblem
Summary: After centuries of being ignored by humans, Vergil receives a visitor to his temple.





	La petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’ll just say it now so it doesn’t come up in the comments.  
> Yes, I use hyphens for dialogues and quotation marks for thoughts. Why? Because this is how we do in Italy, the country I’m from (actually there’s more freedom in Italy and more than one method to use this kind of punctuation but whatever).  
> This is the method I’ve learned and the one I’m used to, and I don’t think I’ll even change it.  
> Please, I beg you, stop pointing it out, it’s starting to get really annoying, especially when that’s the only thing people comment about.

Being the God of Death, Vergil is feared by humans. He basks in it, enjoying the way a bad omen can bring even the bravest of men to utter despair, praying for his puny, mortal life to be spared.

Death is a harsh teacher: it teaches that life shall not be lived lightly, that humans are so small in the grand scheme of things and they should act accordingly.

One should treasure their life for it is short, that is the ultimate teaching. But humans always had difficulty to listen.

 

It doesn’t matter, whether they fear him or not, whether they worship him or not, he’ll keep executing his duties as Death can’t be defeated.

 

 

His temple is empty and cold.

This used to fill Vergil with such rage that only his brother’s intervention had been able to restrain him for unleashing a plague to punish humanity for this sin, but that was centuries ago.

He has come to terms with it now, overseeing everything from his throne, a statuary figure made with marble of the finest quality – a reminder of bygone days in which Death was still respected – that always sends a shiver to the spines of whoever makes the mistake to set foot there, right before realizing where they are a running away as fast as they can.

Moss has started to grow, spreading through the columns of the temple, spider webs could be seen at every angle, dust has accumulated itself over the surfaces.

 

This is the reign of Vergil, the God of Death.

 

 

He has lost count of how many years pass before his solitude is interrupted.

He opens his eyes when he hears the sound of light steps echoing through the temple, and the view under him only manages to perplex him: it’s a human male, a human male who’s staring right at the statue.

For now the God doesn’t let his presence be known, but instead he observes the man through the statue’s eyes with an air of curiosity, wondering about the reason of his presence.

 

Surprisingly, the human starts cleaning around.

He begins by lighting up all the ceremonial candles, and despite the dim light they provide, that’s the brightest the temple has been in a very long time. He then does his best to scrub the moss from the columns, but he has to give up before he could finish, leaning heavily against the cold marble, clearly fatigued even by such a simple task.

 

Vergil can’t help but to watch him with a bit of amusement on his face. Just who does this human think he is, acting like a priest?

And yet, despite this, as he watches him kneel down in front of the statue, head down in submission and voice low as he prays, he can’t help but to also feel grateful that somebody’s _finally_ worshipping him like he deserves.

 

He still doesn’t show himself to the man. Not yet.

 

 

It’s at the end of the second day of this man’s permanence that Vergil decides to make himself known.

 

\- What is your purpose? -, he asks, curious as to why this human has decided to set foot inside the temple.

Years and years of nothing happening have made him more subject to curiosity. Whether this will be revealed to be a big event or just something mundane, it will have at least managed to break the monotony, and even though Vergil wouldn’t describe himself as volatile as some other Gods, he can still be appreciative of that.

 

He’s surprised when his gaze meets the man’s deep green eyes. There was a time in which mortals wouldn’t even dare to look at him, but Vergil waits before punishing the man for this insult; not only he feels like he would only cut his fun short if he did that, but also he doesn’t sense arrogance coming from this man.

He’s looking at him like one would look at an old friend. That’s the thing that he finds, in that gaze of his: familiarity.

 

\- You are the God of Death, right? -.

The man’s voice is deeper, more alluring even, than Vergil was expecting; it almost doesn’t fit his slender appearance at all. He really does look fragile, this human: his structure seems bonier than normal, and those wavy black hair give him a boyish nature, and yet his gaze is smart, intelligent. Something tells Vergil that he shouldn’t judge this human on appearance alone.

 

\- Yes I am -.

\- Then I am worshipping you -.

 

 

Day by day Vergil becomes more used to this human’s presence, but there’s still something that concerns him: he can feel that this man is peculiar; there’s something about him that tells him so, but before asking, he wants to see how strong his dedication is, leaving him to execute the sacred rites – that he apparently knows so well without anyone instructing him – alone.

Surprisingly, the man does not disappoint, nor he leaves the temple.

 

Having him sleep at the base of his statue, leaning against it as if it was home, doesn’t even provoke his ire.

It may be because it has been a _really_ long time since he was even slightly worshipped, but he finds himself willing to let this sacrilegious act slide, and actually he finds himself even more drawn to this man.

 

He asks again.

\- What is your purpose? -.

His stern voice echoes through the temple and part of him enjoys the way his unexpected appearance has seemed to startle the man, who however doesn’t respond, at least until he’s finished to light up the incense as the morning rite demands, kneeled before the censer.

 

He then gets up and turns to the God, still silent and, this time, meeker.

He doesn’t meet his gaze and he wordlessly disrobes, letting the ceremonial garments fall from his shoulders and to the ground, baring himself to the God.

 

Oh. He understands now.

 

It has been a very long time since he’s been presented with someone who’s been touched by Death, but the black markings over the man’s pale skin are unmistakable.

This man has little left to live, as everyone who’s been marked ever does. They say it’s a curse that afflicts these people since birth, marking them as beings that already belong to the dead, but Vergil sees it more as a reminder that life is short, that sooner or later they will all come back to him.

 

\- Do you have a name? -.

\- They used to call me _Vitale_ , hoping it could bring good luck -, the man replies, still not daring to raise his gaze, his body unmoving, but there’s something more, Vergil can sense it.

He’s _yearning_ to be touched, his muscles slightly trembling and not only because of the cold air surrounding him; his gaze is still low but Vergil notices how it might occasionally flicker up, looking at him with such curiosity and desire.

 

It almost makes him want to reach for him, but not now he reminds himself, not yet…

 

\- You can stay then, Vitale -, he declares before turning his back to him, - I offer you hospitality in my temple. Treat it as you would treat your own home -.

\- Thank you -, the human is quick to mutter, but Vergil has already left him.

Vitale still feels observed, even as he puts on the garbs again, and he knows that, even if he might not show himself often, he has caught the God’s eye.

 

 

A year passes, and Vitale works incessantly at the temple, never skipping a rite.

Sometimes Vergil would feel generous and grace him with an apparition, allowing him to sing the chants in his presence.

He has a nice voice to listen to, and Vergil has found himself staying more than he was anticipating at the temple, overseeing Vitale.

 

It feels nice being worshipped again and he must say, Vitale is a very good worshipper despite the too familiar way he acts with him from time to time, but that is to be expected from those who bear the marks: they’ve lived with Death throughout all their lives, it is like an old friend to them.

 

When the God is absent, Vitale attends to his new companions: a blue bird and a panther. Those are Death’s sacred animals, a gift from his God; it would be unwise to ignore them.

He finds himself petting them often, attending to their every need, and them in turn are kind to him, even helping him in his daily chores.

 

He tries not to think about how sad his life is, that he has only them to consider his friends, that he’s been so alone until now, and work is a perfect distraction.

Everything to keep his God’s eyes on him.

 

 

It is summer when Vergil comes to him.

This time however, he gives Vitale what he wants: he pulls him closer, pulling his arms around him, he captures his lips with his, more than pleased by the way Vitale shivers, by the way he immediately submits to him, like he had waited for this for a long time, and Vergil knows he has.

 

He lifts him effortlessly – even for a human, his weight is almost nonexistent – and he takes him to the altar, marvelling at how the already pretty loose robes slide over his body, revealing his skin, baring him to his God.

He lays him down more gently than anticipated, but he couldn’t do otherwise when he notices Vitale’s look of pure awe and devotion.

 

\- This isn’t a gift I bestow to many -.

 

Even between those who are touched, few have experienced this and even fewer have obtained it without even having to ask for it.

\- _Thank you_ … -, Vitale’s voice is pained, pained and yet so happy, - … _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ -.

 

Vergil takes him right there.

Vitale is so pliant, so lovely, with his arms around him, pulling him closer even as his strength diminishes and diminishes, accepting everything his God is giving him, even having the courage to demand more, but Vergil feels generous and he doesn’t deny him anything in his last moments.

Even keeping his eyes open is starting to become more and more arduous, but Vergil rewards him for all his effort, and Vitale has never felt so full, so loved, so at home.

 

Vergil can’t keep his gaze away from him, observing him as he gets closer and closer, euphoria and pain mixed together creating a perfect harmony.

The light is slowly abandoning his eyes, his voice is getting weaker, his responses slower, but Vitale still accepts this gift.

 

It’s with a last jolt of energy that Vitale embraces him tightly, screaming his name from the top of his lungs, the name of his God that, despite the familiarity with which he acted, he never dared once to pronounce.

He reaches the peak, and all the spectrum of emotions he feels are too much for his human mind to process; he feels everything and he feels nothing at the same time and he only has his God to thank for that, his most generous God who has decided to bestow him this last gift, the most important one, and even as life is abandoning him, he’s more than grateful for that.

He’s never felt more alive.

 

 

Only once Vergil has released too he stops, observing how unmoving Vitale is with his eyes still half-open, his lips parted, what little color his skin had gone, accentuating even more the contrasts with the black marks.

He slowly, gently, passes a hand through his hair – who have just turned of the purest of white – a soft gesture that he has never allowed himself to reserve to anyone, and then he presses his lips against his cold forehead.

 

\- Thank you, Vitale… -, he mutters, using the man’s name only for the second time in all the days he’s known him.

He takes him in arms then, carrying his lifeless body with a softness he didn’t even believe he possessed.

\- … But now it is time to welcome you to my reign -.

**Author's Note:**

> Even though that leak has been revealed to be fake given what happens in the game, I like the idea of Vitale as V's name, especially here since the implications of the name.  
> Fun fact: la petite mort, literally "little death", is used with the meaning of orgasm
> 
> [ Here's my links page so that, if you want, you can support me on other platforms as well! ](https://bi-naesala.tumblr.com/links)


End file.
